by Jane Goodall
Zig, in her favourite puffy armchair, might also be awake, judging from her upright position, though her face was buried in the crook of her arm so you couldn’t tell. Sharon closed her eyes and, listening to the soothing noise of the cat’s purr and feeling the swell of its soft body as it breathed, she at last fell into a dream.
She was walking through Highgate cemetery. Every tombstone had someone sitting on it, watching her as she passed, but when she looked at them their faces were a blur. After a while she realised they were following her, converging into a throng that spread out among the tangled greenery all around. Somehow she knew they were the people who belonged inside the graves, but they wouldn’t go back where they came from because they wanted to see the show.
Ahead of her the Suddens were already on the stage, buzzing into the microphone like angry hornets, and Mrs Mullighan was there in the middle of the crowd, serving sandwiches from a tea tray. Sharon didn’t want one because she was worried she’d be late for her part of the show and she didn’t know how she was going to get up onto the stage. She tried to climb up the side of the tomb by placing her foot on the carvings, but found herself sucked downwards instead, till she was slipping through the doorway and into the cavern of its interior.
There were dead people in here, too, dozens of them, clustered round the edges of the space, their misty faces giving off a soft grey light in the darkness. They were watching something. At first Sharon couldn’t see what it was, but then a stream of light came through as the square hole in the roof opened and revealed someone lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The blood was seeping under the soles of her shoes. She tried to step out of its way but it was spreading everywhere.
Sharon started awake and found herself looking into the wide golden eyes of the cat. She lay there watching the growing light, on full alert for more noises as images from the dream kept flashing back into her mind, with the realisation that she might have been really really stupid. So stupid that she didn’t even realise someone was actually killed in that fire show, or that they were burning the body of someone who’d been killed before it. Did that make her a murderer as well?
She uncurled her legs and sat forward in the chair, looking at Zig and wondering what was going on in her mind as she lay there with her fingers curled around the string bag. She’d been keeping that very close ever since the visit to Johnny Mullighan’s, but the rolled-up scrapbook was slipping out and Sharon made a grab for it.
Sneaking out of the room, she stood under the window on the landing and began turning the pages. Loose papers from between them kept falling on the floor, distracting her attention from the densely arranged newspaper clippings that were pasted in the book. The stuff on the loose pages was different. Drawings. She gathered them up, put about half of them in her own bag and returned the rest to the book, which she managed to replace more or less as she’d found it, without waking Zig. Then she threw on the boiler suit and left the house.
42
Briony tried to call Gareth first thing on Friday morning, but again the phone rang out. Numbly, she pulled on her cotton shirt and slacks and prepared for work. Outside the day was already showing signs of heating up and she resigned herself to missing out on a freshening sprint round the block.
As she was staring out of the window, the phone rang and caused her to miss a few heartbeats, until she reminded herself firmly that Gareth wouldn’t have got the letter yet and so would have no idea where to ring her. It was Fletcher, of course, ‘just checking’. So she gave him a brief update on her movements yesterday afternoon, playing a bit ingenuous about the results of the Sherringham interview.
‘Basically,’ she said, ‘we know that Dignall had a copy of Yeller, and we know that he had some contact with Maxwell Tremlay through the art class. I’m intending to make a few more enquiries to see if we can establish any specific connection between Dignall and the Yeller crew.’
‘Just as long as you have Denis with you. And get him to report your location at all times.’
Briony thought for a moment, then rang Steve and asked him to meet her at Jimmy’s. She got Leonie to drop her off there after breakfast.
‘No need to wait for me this time,’ she said. ‘Just report where I am and I’ll get Denis to collect me when I’m finished.’
It was Steve who opened the door to her and led the way through to the office. ‘It’s getting to be the unofficial CID room, this. Apparently we’ve just missed Aidan. He’s been round here dropping off samples for Pavan.’
‘Really? Where are they?’
‘Already been collected, Jimmy says. Aidan told him they were for express delivery. So.’ Steve gestured to the seat opposite him at the table and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Tell you one thing, Briony,’ he said as he lit up, ‘you did me a favour getting me back on the fags. It’s thirty-seven hours now since my last drink.’ He smacked his chest, coughing abruptly. ‘New man, can’t you see?’
Briony’s token half-smile evidently wasn’t enough of an endorsement, and his tone suddenly changed. ‘But do me a favour. Don’t come the Girl Guide on me, all right? I don’t know about you but I’m feeling like I’ve been turned inside out.’
‘Yeah. I know that feeling,’ she said quietly. ‘So what have you got to report?’
‘I talked to Patrick Mullighan up in Pentonville. He’s in for break and enter — multiple offences. Been inside since January, so he’s got a rock-solid alibi for all the incidents we’re concerned with. His answer to the question of who brought him the Yeller magazine is: “Johnny picked it up somewhere.” Johnny being the kid brother. Well, eighteen years old.’
‘And is Johnny involved with the punks?’
‘According to the prison staff, John Mullighan looks so straight he couldn’t crook his little finger. Goes to work, lives at home where he looks after his nutty mother, and the two of them pay a monthly visit to Patrick in the jug. They live in one of those new high rises in the World’s End, so we’d best pay them a visit. I was going to do it yesterday afternoon, but ... something happened.’ He swallowed and his jaw stiffened. She could tell he was fighting back tears.
After last night, Briony felt drained of tears and somehow distant from what was going on around her. The arrangement of thoughts in her mind was doing a slow somersault. ‘The copy of Yeller that got into Brixton — there’s no picture of the Walker on the back, no Deff Row page — but Tremlay features in the centre spread ... ’
‘Killer of the month!’ Steve quipped. ‘Pin-up pic.’
‘See, we know Len Dignall had that copy, and it would have shown him there were people who took a special sort of interest in the Walker. And he had a special sort of access to him. As a matter of fact, Tremlay was allowed to attend a couple of the art classes — where he had his portrait done. By Dignall.’
‘What?’ Steve was half laughing, with a pained expression on his face.
‘Dignall took a life cast of Tremlay’s face. The art teacher — Ewan Sherringham — kept it for him, and as soon as Dignall came out of jail he went to collect it. You know what you can do with a life cast? Make a mask. So who would have wanted this little collector’s item?’
‘Johnny Mullighan.’
‘We’d better think carefully about how we approach him.’
‘Obvious,’ said Steve. ‘We go for the nutty mother. Pay her a call on some pretext — like checking up on local bike thefts or something — and you and she get into a nice girly chat, while I assess what’s really going on there.’
‘Did you ever do any role reversal work in your psychology training?’ Briony asked dryly.
‘What’s this?’ Jimmy came in rubbing his hands. ‘You two squabbling again?
‘It’s all right, Jimmy,’ Briony said. ‘We’re just leaving. Anything to tell us? I hear Aidan’s paid you a visit this morning.’
‘All too briefly, I’m afraid. He strikes me as a bit on the edge, specially this morning. Full of orders about how I’m to get his sam
ples collected immediately, and I’m to phone the lab and make sure they pick up on the job. Then he’s off on his bike without so much as a how’s-your-father.’
Briony was frowning. ‘Did you take a look at them, these samples?’
‘Only in general. They were all bagged up, numbered and labelled, so I didn’t like to interfere with them. They’re from an address in Lots Road.’
‘Would you say they were a professional job?’
‘Absolutely. Sixteen packets, neat as a row of soldiers.’
‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘Pavan told Fletcher that Aidan’s last lot of forensic samples were complete crap.’
‘Not literally, I hope,’ quipped Steve.
‘Not far off. Two plastic bags stuffed full of graveyard mud.’ She picked up the telephone and dialled Pavan’s number.
‘Briony,’ he said, in the downbeat tone you’d use to a nuisance caller.
‘I’m sorry, Pavan. I’m well aware that you’re probably snowed under.’
‘Wrong metaphor, I think. It really is rather warm here. What can I do for you?’
Briony hated being spoken to in this way, but her reactions to everything felt somehow muted right now. She stuck to the points she had to focus on. ‘I need to know if you’ve received the latest set of samples Aidan’s collected?’
‘They were delivered this morning, yes. But I haven’t looked at them yet.’
‘Well could you have a look now?’
‘I’m afraid they’ll have to wait their turn. We’re short-staffed here and the lab is fully occupied at present, with matters that have been scheduled in strict order of priority.’
‘Do me a favour, Pavan,’ she found herself saying, ‘and stop talking to me as if I was some clueless junior. I have to ask you something quite specific, and I need an answer immediately. Would you mind getting those samples and bringing them over to the phone?’
There was silence on the other end while Briony exchanged glances with Steve, who mimed clapping.
‘Briony? I have them in front of me.’
‘Good. Now, would you mind telling me how those compare with the last set of exhibits you got from Aidan?’
‘Completely different kettle of fish.’ His tone had changed now. ‘I’d say these were not the work of the same person.’
‘Thank you, Pavan. That’s all I need to know. I’d suggest you give this new set a very high priority. And while you’re about it, see if there are any interesting fingerprints on the evidence bags from the first set.’ She put the phone down.
*
Steve decided to go in chase of Aidan and left Briony and Denis to do the interview with Patrick Mullighan’s family. As they pulled up at the edge of the high rise zone in the World’s End estate, Briony for once felt that Denis was exactly the person she needed to have with her. She’d given him a cursory briefing on the way and asked him to make the running with the first part of the interview, just to put Mrs Mullighan at ease.
They entered the building and he pressed the lift button. ‘I heard a story about a little girl that lives in one of these high-rise flats. She was walking all day at school on her tippy-toes. Turned out it was because her dad works nights and the walls in her block were made of bloody cardboard, so she’d been brought up not to make a sound. Ever since she was toddler, she’d been walking like that. Still, I spose these new ones aren’t quite so high.’
They made their way down the rubbish-strewn corridor and knocked on the door. It was some time before there were any signs of response on the other side, then it was opened by a woman wearing bright blue rubber gloves that were dripping with suds. ‘Are you Social Security?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, Mrs Mullighan,’ Denis said cheerily. ‘We’re nothing to do with the DSS. Just your local coppers. Would you mind if we had a bit of a chat?’
‘John’s a good boy,’ she said. She showed them in, pulling off the gloves and looking self-conscious.
‘At work, is he?’ asked Denis.
She looked at her watch. ‘Half past twelve. He might be back for his dinner. I suppose you want to sit down.’
Briony was preoccupied with the machine over by the wall — the elephant in the room — but resisted the temptation to ask about it immediately.
‘Will I make a cup of tea?’ said Mrs Mullighan.
‘No need to bother with that,’ said Denis. ‘Just come and talk to us for a minute. Where does he work, your John?’
‘He works in the factory down there.’ She pointed through the window at the sky.
‘In the power station? So what sort of work does he do?’
‘Metal cutting. It’s hot metal. He has to wear gloves.’ Her own blue gloves were laid on her lap and she fingered the tips of them nervously. ‘Asbestos.’
‘And Johnny usually comes back for lunch, is that right?’ She nodded. ‘Then he’ll be going out again.’
‘They’re always in and out these days aren’t they, the teenagers? Likes his Friday night concert I expect.’
Denis pressed on, trying to develop a line of conversation about the local entertainment scene and was getting nowhere in particular, while Briony scanned the room. She could see no signs of anything unusual, apart from the photocopying machine. What she needed was an opportunity to look through some of the papers stacked up beside it.
‘Actually Mrs Mullighan,’ she said, ‘I’m dying for a cup of tea. Can I take you up on your kind offer?’
‘What about sandwiches? Will I make sandwiches?’
‘Just the tea, thanks.’
As Mrs Mullighan disappeared into the kitchen, Briony signalled for Denis to follow her. ‘Keep her talking,’ she whispered. ‘Try and give me five minutes.’
She lifted the lid of the machine and found a paper on the glass plate underneath. It was a spread of photographs not unlike those Aidan had taken, showing scenes from the Highgate pantomime. The paper was white, whereas those stacked on the floor were yellow, so it could be the master copy. Turning her attention to the printed pages, she found they were collated in sets, ready for stapling, and she was about to go through when she realised she wasn’t alone.
A young man, who must have entered with the silence of a cat burglar, was standing over by the door watching her, hands in the pockets of his overalls. She tried to sound unfazed.
‘Johnny Mullighan?’
‘What’s up?’
‘We’re making some enquiries,’ she said. ‘About Yeller magazine. You seem to be familiar with it.’ She tapped one of the stacks of paper. ‘New issue? Hot off the press?’
He was walking slowly around the perimeter of the room, then stopped at the window. Nothing about him, she thought, carried any of the punks’ trademarks, and the overalls looked as if they were in professional use. His hair was evenly crew cut, as a professional barber would do it. He had her in his sights but his gaze kept travelling across her, as if he were avoiding her eye.
‘You do the printing here then?’ Briony lifted the lid of the photocopier. ‘Expensive toy. Want to give us a demonstration?’
‘No.’ Mullighan advanced a couple more steps towards her. It was hard to get the measure of this bloke. She decided to try a bluff.
‘Thing is, I’ve been talking to your brother in Pentonville — Patrick — and he was telling us you’re pretty much head cook and bottle washer with this magazine.’ She corrected herself pointedly, ‘Fanzine you call it, is that right? He says you write most of it yourself.’ She picked up a page filled with jagged capital letters and muddy photographs. ‘Although maybe it’s not exactly written. Cut and pasted, more like. I daresay there’s an art to it.’
John Mullighan took another step forward, so he was only a yard or so away from her, and put his hand on the back of the sofa, his fingers digging hard into the upholstery.
She kept her voice steady. ‘I’m interested in where you get some of your inspiration from.’
‘Two teas,’ announced Mrs Mullighan, who was followed b
y Denis carrying a tray.
‘What are they doing here?’ her son demanded.
‘They said they want a cup of tea.’
‘Well it’s not convenient.’ He wheeled round on Denis. ‘It’s not convenient.’
‘All right.’ Briony moved towards the door. ‘Maybe you and Johnny can drink the tea, Mrs Mullighan. It was kind of you to make it. We’ll arrange to have a talk with John another time.’
‘Foof’ Denis exclaimed as they got back in the car. ‘Where did Johnny boy spring from? I never heard him come in. What’s his game then?’
‘Our job to find out. To begin with, you might ring the payroll office at the power station and check whether he’s actually on their list.’
Fletcher was out when they got back to Lucan Place. Briony sifted through the rapidly growing mental list of follow-ups and called Pavan, who embarrassed her with a formal apology for his ‘highhanded behaviour’.
‘Well I seem to remember having a go on the high horse myself. Forget it, Pavan,’ she said. ‘What matters is that we don’t get this case snagged up in a lot of personal stuff. Steve’s gone out hunting for Aidan, because it’s urgent now that we get his side of the story about those samples from Highgate. If there’s some kind of sabotage involved in the way they’ve changed hands, that’s an investigation in itself. Any ideas?’
‘Ken swears that what I received is exactly what he collected from Gunter Grove.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ she said. ‘I happened to run into him when he was up there and I saw the bulging plastic bags on the table. Have you checked the locks in Aidan’s room?’
‘I’ve got two men over there now looking for signs of intrusion. We’re very short-staffed here, but I’m trying to work out how we can get a team up to Highgate this afternoon to go over the ground again — that’s urgent, given that someone has been to a lot of trouble to prevent us from finding out what it might yield. We’ll need Aidan’s guidance to find the correct site.’